


A long-denied thirst for things green and alive

by Fleem



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Amenadiel (Lucifer TV) Being an Asshole, Gen, HIV/AIDS, Hell, Los Angeles, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) is Bad at Feelings, Lucifer Morningstar Being Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-07-31 13:41:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fleem/pseuds/Fleem
Summary: His last vacation was 1975, and every good Devil needs a break. But in 2003, it will take Lucifer time, effort, and the help of a close friend to be able to mingle with humanity once more.AU set in 2003 for Reasons





	1. Re-entry

The devil liked to travel incognito. He'd found that revealing himself made his sojourns much less pleasant, as people would react with fear or, worse, obsequiousness. He stuck to cities and seaports, places where a foreigner wouldn't stand out and be immediately evident. 

He liked to begin in markets, where trading was the lingua franca, acquiring appropriate garb for the time and place. His personal appearance was malleable and adjusted for convenience -- darker skin here, longer or curlier hair there, a beard, a change in stature, a change of gender. Languages were all the same to him; he could change accents, languages and dialects at will, all the better to fade into the population as much as was possible for a stranger with great skills and wealth. 

The wealth. It had been difficult to arrange, in the beginning, because continuity over centuries was constantly interrupted by wars and disasters, so he had diversified, leaving caches of valuable artifacts on every continent, with hereditary stewards sworn to service, secrecy, and loyalty. Once recordkeeping became reliable across generations, his servants had been able to transfer wealth to more liquid forms: currency in ledgers, and eventually, in nothing but a series of electrons. Always there were institutions able to maintain the fortune, for centuries, or, during a nearly interminable series of infernal wars, millennia. He hoped never to go that long without visiting earth, with its fresh air and fascinating permutations of humanity, ever again. Yet, even through vast transitions of technology and language, the caches continued to grow and flourish. 

In the places where money wasn't used, he'd relied on other currency: secrets and stories. He would trade knowledge of his own realm for knowledge of this one -- how to summon demons in exchange for the history of the locality for the past century, or the names of his siblings for the names of those in power, or those who wished to be so. He would exchange pleasures as well, offering well-practiced sensual skills for access to the local delicacies and attractions. 

These strategies helped to pave over the initial awkwardness of re-entry, enabling the smoothing-over of otherwise egregious faux pas as he adjusted to the contemporary styles of manner and dress. He never stayed long enough to fully assimilate, so he preferred to be perceived as slightly exotic, which helped to excuse certain cultural transgressions. Ideally, he'd present as the prince of some vaguely known foreign country, speaking the local tongue with the accent of a cultivated immigrant.

\---

He emerged in America, through the California Gate, with his demon companion Mazikeen in tow. Although this gate had once opened into a dry valley, this time they found themselves in a nearly airless subterranean room. They wandered through an oddly familiar building in search of the egress, through echoing corridors punctuated with doors at regular intervals, the walls of ceramic tile, brick, and metal festooned with short-lived paper leaflets bearing inscriptions: "Prom 2003" and "Cheerleading tryouts" and "Don't smoke? Don't start!" 

The pair soon found their way to the building's exit and launched into the moonlit sky, the Devil's opalescent wings stretching wide as he bore his demon away from the gate of Hell. The valley had been thickly settled since their last visit, and was now a patchwork of houses and streets marked by a series of orange haloes, fanning out from a central artery for a few blocks and fading back into lightless scrub beyond the cul-de-sacs. Occasional pairs of headlights punctured the darkness, traveling down the deserted nighttime roads like glowing beads sliding down a long, bare thread.

They drank great gulps of the fresh air, the first they'd breathed in centuries that was free of the brimstone fetor that permeated Hell. Earth's atmosphere was honey-sweet in comparison, quenching a long-denied thirst for things green and alive. It was a healing balm for their callused lungs and hearts, and brought a vital flush to faces made sallow by millennia spent in semi-darkness. 

He flew them to the great city nearby, following the wide, light-dotted ribbon of the late-night freeway, with LA's distant lights growing larger and closer until he was winging between the walls of high buildings, in earshot of the garbage trucks, street sweepers, and other assorted vehicles thundering down the otherwise quiet streets that smelled of exhaust and vegetation.

Alighting on a random corner, he saw there were still newspaper vending boxes on the streets, but the price of a paper had increased by tenfold since his last visit. Several hundred years had passed in Hell since he was last on Earth; here it had been only twenty-five. 

Although his memory of significant landmarks had been dimmed by the centuries, a few circumnavigations of the city eventually brought them to their first destination, a low-slung stucco building tucked between two churches: one Baptist, one Catholic. It was the sort of building that nobody would remember was there unless they were looking for it. The pair stood on the sidewalk while he folded his luminous wings into invisibility. The demon's glossy and indestructible black leather garb reflected circles of orange light from the overhead streetlamps. The Devil looked down at his infernal rainment, tattered and soiled with centuries of blood and ash, looked at his hands streaked with unidentifiable dirt, and knew that it would not do to be seen by humans in such a state.

There was a parking lot wrapped around the side of the building, painted off into five spaces, with a BMW sedan parked in the space closest to a door at the back of the building. The Devil and his demon stood on the threshhold. A black, hinged-top mailbox beside the door was marked with the number 6 and the name, "Morningstar, LLC". 

Lucifer reached into the mailbox, extracted a key, and unlocked the door, which swung wide, revealing a well-appointed if somewhat grimy studio apartment in a state of mild disarray: laundry strewn on the floor beside the bed against the wall opposite the door; the island along the galley kitchen stacked with supper dishes; beside the door, a desk holding a tower computer, CRT monitor, and its associated printer piled high with stacks of paper bearing heavy scrawlings of red ink, with edges curled from handling. The room was filled with the sound of steady snoring.

He flipped the light switch beside the entry, making his eyes smart with the unaccustomed brightness of incandescent bulbs. Mazikeen slunk toward the kitchen and perused the contents of the refrigerator. She took out a beer, extracted a dagger from within her garments, used it to pry off the bottle cap, drank the whole thing without stopping, and set the empty bottle next to the dirty dishes on the counter. 

Startled by the snick-hiss of the bottle being opened, the human who had been asleep and snoring sat bolt upright and looked wildly around the room. He was a brown-skinned man of about fifty, with unfashionably long curly hair that was on its way to going grey, though not there just yet. His finely-chiseled features had thickened with age; the face that had once been strikingly beautiful was now attractive but unremarkable. His bright blue eyes gradually focused on the clock, which read 2:22 AM, and then on the pair of intruders. 

Mazikeen froze. The Devil arranged his features into what he remembered as a smile, white teeth showing brightly against his dark beard. He inclined his head in greeting.

"Hello, Salvador."

"Dev. You're back. You're really back. Holy shit, look at you. How are you? How have you been?" 

Lucifer laughed without amusement, because it was impossible to convey the actuality of "how he was." His constitution allowed him to physically endure the rigors of Hell: the darkness and fire; the constant din of voices of the torturers and the tortured; the violent peaks of cathartic emotion from inflicting profoundly deserved pain on some wretch; the sheer desolation that came with the knowledge that no-one else in the cosmos could know what this was like, and no-one ever would. It had been a very high price to pay for free will. Usually, he believed it was worth it. 

Sal, whom Lucifer considered a friend as well as a business associate, who was trustworthy and true, and who was indebted to him for decades of financial support which enabled him to pursue his writing career without risking starvation, and who had agreed to be available when the time came, usually called him "Dev." For obvious reasons. 

"Yes, look at me. Or rather, don't. I would really love to catch up, Sal, but would you mind if I freshened up first?"

Sal frowned sympathetically, stretched, and scratched the back of his neck. He turned to perch at the edge of the bed to look at his grubby, disheveled guest with a combination of nostalgia and wonder. 

The demon approached Sal and stood over him, glowering. "Where are the clothes?" she demanded.

"In the closet on the left. I just replaced them six months ago, so they should be current enough."

She extracted a garment bag from the closet and unzipped it to reveal a dark, single-breasted suit and a crisp white shirt. The Devil stripped off his filthy demon-spun garments where he stood, dropping them on the floor in a puff of dust and ash. His dark, tangled hair hung past his shoulders and down his pale, freckled back.

Sal gestured vaguely toward the other side of the room. "You know where the shower is."

"That, I do. " Lucifer took the garment bag, disappeared into the bathroom, and shut the door. 

\---

He hung bag with the suit on a hook on the back of the door, and examined himself in the mirror, the first look he'd had at his own face since his last trip to Earth. He was grubby and bearded, his tangled dark hair shot through with pale dirt and ash, his face and upper arms streaked with grime. His fingernails were solid black crescents. 

He turned the handle on the shower to start it warming up. Spellbound by the jets of clear, uncontaminated water, he closed his eyes and leaned into the tepid spray, opening his mouth to drink. Only water, but so unbelievably sweet. 

When the shower ran warmer than his skin, the Devil stepped into the tub and sluiced off the filth of Hell. Cracked scales of dark mud detached from his skin and swirled down the drain. He soaped and scrubbed every inch of his body, washed his long hair, twice, with shampoo that smelled like sweet musk and ambrosial cleanliness, and then worked conditioner (what a ridiculous, miraculous, earthly thing!) into the rough, tangled knots until his fingers slid through the strands easily and the water ran clear. 

Satisfied, he leaned against the shower wall and let the warm water rinse and rinse and rinse him until his pale skin shone pink with the heat and every last trace of Hell, every whiff of brimstone and ichor and ash, had been washed away.

\---

While waiting for her boss to finish his shower, Maze opened another beer and drank it. And another.

Half an hour later, Lucifer emerged, freshly scrubbed, with only a towel wrapped around his hips, his hair freshly combed, glistening and damp. 

Maze tossed a beer to Lucifer, who caught it, and regarded it suspiciously. He plunked it back on the counter. "Not what I was hoping for," he said, "Let's go for the real stuff. Sal, darling? Where's the good booze?"

"Look in the left-hand cabinet over the sink. It's been there since you left." 

The demon opened a cabinet in the kitchen and extracted a dusty bottle of single malt whose label bore a Scottish name with many unpronounceable consonants. She broke the wax seal on the cork, poured the golden elixir into a cloudy glass, and gave it to Lucifer, who took it, drained it, and reached for the bottle. 

"Ah. That's more like it." The Devil smiled and refilled his glass, humming with satisfaction. "You know, I've been dreaming of this for decades, now." He sat on the edge of the bed next to Sal, who slipped an arm around his waist. 

"It's really good to see you, Dev." 

"It's good to be seen." Lucifer wracked his memory for the names of the people they had both known, the last time. "Say, is Brad still in the picture? The two of you were so lovely together."

"Brad died in 1989. AIDS." 

Lucifer looked away. He remembered a golden-haired, elfin boy with a quick smile, a fondness for bad puns, and a huge appetite for cocaine. And for Sal. "Oh. I'm so sorry. How about Jason?"

"1991." Jason, deceptively clean-cut and athletic, with an adorable Texas drawl, had supplied most of the cocaine that Brad had been so fond of.

"Diego?"

"1990. And Gene in '92. Of the six of us, I was the only one left. I was sick, too, but I got better." 

Lucifer contemplated this, his mouth drawing into a tight, disappointed line. "Well, I'm glad you're still here. For my sake."

Sal shifted uncomfortably. "Lucky you." His eyes swept over the Devil's long, dark hair, his smooth, pale, unlined skin, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and graceful posture, like a dancer's. Or a king's. "Damn, you're still so beautiful."

From somewhere in his collected experience, Lucifer recalled that a joke could be effective to break through a human's reserve and to allay discomfort. "Cariño, since we last saw each other, I've spent centuries maintaining this, so don't take it for granted." 

"Centuries? Wow. Fucking unreal. But I saw you when you got here. You haven't done shit to maintain that." Sal smiled. "So, care to smoke some herb?" 

Lucifer suppressed an urge to weep with gratitude. This assistant had been very well-chosen. "That would be lovely."

Sal reached under his bed and withdrew a six-inch high, translucent orange bong, and a small, rolled-up plastic baggie. He crossed to the kitchen to fill the cylinder with water from the sink, returned to his perch on the bed, packed the bowl with fragrant weed, tamped it with his little finger, and lit it, sucking the flame through until it glowed. The room was filled with hazy smoke and herbal funk. He offered the bong and lighter to Lucifer, who drew a deep, bubbling drag and smiled abstractly, eyes closed., He held, then released a cloud of fragrant smoke in a long, slow exhale.

"Ah, marvelous. Thank you." He held out the bong to the demon Maze, who was busy swigging her next beer. She roughly pushed her palm toward his face and shook it; her way of saying no, thank you. Sal took another hit, and so did the Devil. They relaxed into one another, with Sal's brown arm draped across his pale shoulders.

"The shower's all yours, Maze," Lucifer said. "Be careful, the water can get remarkably hot."

The demon snorted at the warning and stalked off into the bathroom, closing the door more loudly than necessary. 

Normally, in this sort of situation, Lucifer would inquire after his companion's desires, and do his best to fulfill them, but tonight, he was beyond bone-tired, and wanted little more than to lie down, breathe great lungfuls of the exquisitely fresh air, and fall asleep. He could ask more questions tomorrow.

Lucifer yawned and stretched his legs across the rug, his bare feet seeming unfinished and exposed, his shaggy head leaning tiredly on Sal's broad shoulder. Sal knew from experience that any appearance of frailness was an illusion, and that his companion was capable of hurling a full-grown man across a room with one hand, as long as he had one hand free and a target in mind. Still, his heart nearly broke to see the trusting way this nearly invincible Devil lay in his own very human arms. He planted a kiss on the top of his head, the damp curls smelling of cheap shampoo and rainy air.

"You must be exhausted. Let's get some rest. We can catch up more in the morning." 

"I cannot possibly convey the amount of tired I am," said Lucifer, dropping the towel over the edge of the bed. "Good night, cariño."

They stretched out under the blankets, Sal settling his body into Lucifer's angles, his knees against the back of Lucifer's legs, his belly against Lucifer's back. If he was a little aroused and pressing against his friend's ass, what of it? Tonight, they would only sleep. A long, pale hand wrapped around his solid brown one, and the Devil's breathing grew slow and regular. 

There was no reason Sal needed to feel protective on behalf of the King of Hell, but he did anyway. It took a long time to fall asleep, but he didn't mind.


	2. Re-reentry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer and Maze have arrived safely on Earth, and now they want to enjoy their time there to the fullest.

Lucifer slept for a solid eighteen hours, through the day and into the next evening. When he awoke, Sal was sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Feel better? "

"Somewhat." He pushed long hair out of his eyes. His beard itched. It needed to go.

Sal helpfully supplied clippers and razor, and soon the face of the devil shone once again like the sun. Much better. Shaving had been so exhausting that he was ready to go back to bed.

***

The first time they fucked was fast, almost desperate, urgent with long-suppressed need and terrifyingly intense sensations. Like stripping off skin along with clothes; instead of cocks and tongues and hands and asses, they mingled bones and viscera and exposed nerves.

Afterward Sal rested his head on his old friend's shoulder and wept. He thought of the lost lovers and friends, of a time almost buried, most who would remember it already dead. He wept for the months and years of sickness and uncertainty, for the daily and weekly lists of the newly gone, for the endless nights of sitting vigils at deathbeds, for the outrage and anger at the world's indifference, for the silence. The sex was for them; it was in memory of them.

Later they touched each other slowly and lazily, hands and mouths exploring, savoring the feel of slick skin and the taste of sweat and spunk freely given and freely taken. Nothing could have been more important than this, grinding bodies together to crowd out unspeakable loss.

***

"That was incredible. Like the old days, but better. I never thought I'd be able to do anything like that ever again. Thank you."

"No need for thanks. Your obligation to me was already fulfilled."

"Obligation?" Sal pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes.

"Yes. When I was last here, you agreed to provide the location of first contact on my return, including a place to sleep and a change of contemporary clothing. You did that admirably. Sex wasn't part of that deal."

Sal blinked. "Right."

"Sex is an eminently portable and effective currency, and has often been a part of my agreements, just not this one. So, no obligation." Lucifer straightened the points of his collar and examined the blazer on its hanger for specks of lint. "Not that I minded."

"Minded."

"Are you having trouble with your hearing? You seem to be repeating my words back to me." He carefully removed cedar shoe trees from his favorite wingtip oxfords, which still had a decent shine after spending twenty five years in a box.

"Dev, you've been away for a long time. Our past must seem unbelievably distant to you. But last night, and this morning... I thought you wanted it the way I did. I thought you would understand."

"What don't I understand?"

"That it's only been a few years since the virus was considered a death sentence. That it took a decade of literally protesting in the street while hundreds of thousands of people died horrifically before there was treatment that made a real difference. That I'm only here because I held on long enough to not die. That so many people are afraid to even touch me." Sal struggled to keep his voice from breaking.

"Why would_ I_ be afraid? As I told you yesterday, I'm very glad you're here." Lucifer was threading new shoelaces through the brass eyelets of his Oxfords.

"But don't you remember how we were? Our friends? There was you and me and Brad and Gene and Jason and Diego? We'd go out to the clubs to dance and meet lots of people, and do all kinds of things with them. But we would always get back together at the end of the night, or the next day, because we were friends. Because we loved each other. I loved you, Dev. Brad loved you. We all did. The way you're talking now, this quid pro quo stuff, we were never like that."

Lucifer evened up the ends of his laces and turned the tortoiseshell shoehorn over and over, cool and smooth in his hands, before sliding his heels home.

"_Quid pro quo_. Punishing the wicked. It's all the same. I'll always give you what you deserve. That's what I do, _cariño_. And we both deserved a good rogering, didn't we?"

Sal sighed loudly. "Yeah, I guess we did."

***

"This way sir. And, madam."

Lucifer and Mazikeen made an odd pair, she in skin tight leather, he in tailored wool. They were ushered into a windowless but very plush reception area, offered drinks, and allowed to wait for all of three minutes while enjoying the very good bourbon and breathing the scent of expensive leather upholstery and furniture polish.

"Sir? Hello. I'm Charles." The man was maybe twenty-six , fair, freckled, with artfully tousled blond hair frosted lighter at the ends. He wore a white smock over casual but expensive black shirt with a narrow spread collar, and slim-fit black jeans.

"Do you know who I am, Charles? "

"Of course I do. You're Mr. Morningstar. I'm so happy to finally meet you." He appraised Lucifer's nearly-fitting suit and overgrown hair, and grinned. "We have a lot of work to do today!"

"Yes we do! I'd like to be less rock star and more tycoon, if you get my meaning."

Lucifer spent the day with Charles, being groomed and outfitted, and emerged with a glowing complexion enhanced with an impeccable haircut and a new collection of designer suits, shirts, and accessories.

Maze had prowled the streets near the office, learning the lay of the land, scouting for places where they'd be likely to encounter interesting humans for business and for sex. This hadn't taken all day though, and she was waiting in the reception area, idly spinning a curved dagger around her finger, having entirely exhausted the dish of starlight mints and started in on the jellybeans when Lucifer finally appeared, looking every inch the sophisticated gentleman.

In the pocket of his crisp wool blazer, he had a wallet with a driver's license, a high-limit charge card, and several hundred dollars in cash. Tucked between the bills was a small scrap of paper torn out of a notebook, which had several names and telephone numbers written on it: the bank, the legal office, the property manager, the tailor. He also had a stack of business cards bearing the inscription "_Morningstar, LLC_" and the phone number of his business office. Finally, there was another business card with the name and address of their boutique hotel in Beverly Hills.

A livery driver dropped Lucifer and Mazikeen at their hotel, and a bellman carried the numerous parcels and and shopping bags up to the suite. They tipped him extremely well.

***

During a vacation on Earth, they imbibed everything that Hell was not: living potential, open-ended arcs, the unknown. Surprises, sudden joy, abrupt despair. They wanted to drink in the endless novelty of humans living their short, wildly variable lives on Earth, to submerge themselves in the world's bustling, purposeful vitality.

They moved through the world of humans like illuminated ghosts, like rockstars, like monarchs: granting favors, making connections, tasting, tripping, watching, sleeping, dreaming, fucking, fighting. They wanted sex and excitement and drugs, pure sensation and experience. They searched for tastes they had never tasted, songs they had never heard, new mouths to kiss, new jokes to tell.

The city was a twenty-four hour buffet of life, of light, of sound. People on the streets were so many stories on the hoof; they could ask any one of them a few simple questions, and hear something exotic and fascinating every time: a new set of desires, of failures, of ambitions.

A homeless man on San Pedro held a bottle of MD 20/20 in a paper bag, and told a story of fighting in a war, where a teenage soldier, who spoke a language he didn't understand, surprised him in his sleep, and cut open his belly with a knife. He lifted his grubby shirt, right there on the street, to display the zipper-like scar traversing his abdomen below the navel. He said that he had seen his own guts erupting from the cut, writhing and glistening, before he had passed out from the pain. He was still there to talk about it, but not doing so great. A black-nailed hand swept across the air, indicating the squalor around them. He offered to recite a poem.

When they agreed, he fished a soiled spiral book out of the deep interior pocket of his battered brown canvas work jacket, and began:

_Can you dig yourself, across the street?_  
_Do you dig the people that you meet?_  
_And is goodness just another pill_  
_We swallow with the bitter swill?_ [1]

Lucifer and Maze listened gravely.

"My friend, what do you truly desire in this world?" the Devil asked.

The man looked up, as if reading a list written in the sky behind them. "_My_ desire? A hot shower. And a bus ticket back to Iowa to see my sister before she dies of cancer."

"Done."

Back at the hotel in Beverly Hills, the man unbuttoned and unzipped his tattered, destroyed clothes, dropping them on the floor in a heap, and then disappeared into the shower. Steam wafted from beneath the bathroom door.

Fifteen short minutes later, he emerged, clad in a fluffy hotel towel, smelling of Lucifer's aftershave and the fancy hotel soap, his too-long hair carefully combed back in waves, his pockmarked face shot through with broken blood vessels but shaven and well-scrubbed.

Lucifer offered him one of several Armani suits, which were all he had available to give, explaining that he could easily pick up another tomorrow. The man donned a suit reluctantly. After examining himself in the mirror, he uncomfortably explained that he only wanted a clean set of workman's clothes, something that faded into inconspicuousness, not an outfit that made him look like he'd mugged a Eurotrash clubster and stolen his clothes.

"I'll take care of it," Maze said, and she was off to the Gap, to pick up street clothes that wouldn't attract attention when hung on the man's gaunt, unsteady frame. When she returned with three large navy-blue shopping bags and a shoe box, she also pressed a bus ticket into his hand.

The man didn't know what to say, so he changed into the new clothes, examined his reflection in the full length mirror, and seemed satisfied with the new jeans and sweatshirt. He said thanks and shuffled off, his stiff new Timberland boots squeaking faintly, his hands shoved in the pockets of pants that still had strips of adhesive on them where stickers that said "28/34" had been removed. He left the hotel with Lucifer's cheerful "_Bon voyage_!" ringing in his ears, having shared his war story and several original poems in exchange for the trip home. Both parties were well satisfied with their bargain.

The next day, Lucifer fucked a pair of dancers, an aspiring music act. They couldn't carry a tune worth a damn, but they were so beautiful that perhaps autotune would be enough to help them realize their dreams. He called a friend who was a music producer, the one who loved the young actor who couldn't come out because of his career but was seeking true love nonetheless; Lucifer had introduced them and they were now blissfully coupled. He talked up the hot young duo of soul singing girls, saying they would either be snapped up as a musical act or go on to modelling or acting careers any day now (because Lucifer could make that happen, too), so he should really give them a listen, knowing all the while that all the man needed was a glimpse of the two statuesque dark-skinned divas, and he would be smitten with their imperious attitudes and unshakeable confidence in their own immense worth. They'd be fine. Desires fulfilled all round.

It went on like this, the weeks stretching into months, while the pair endeared themselves to the hotel staff with their habits of wildly overtipping and inviting them to partake in whatever vice was at hand once their shifts were over. The world was indeed their oyster. Temporarily.

And then, like a turd in a punchbowl, Lucifer's brother arrived, with a two-week warning before the return to Hell casting a pall over their remaining time on Earth.

After Amenadiel's visit, they indulged a bit more urgently, perhaps two trysts a night instead of the one, frantically exploring new and different places each day: dinner at one place, dessert at another, dancing at the next, then drinks, then an after-hours _boîte_, with expensive drugs and big names that were never, ever to be dropped, even by the Devil, who was often uninhibited and tactless, but honored all requests for privacy as the sacred agreements he knew them to be.

Two weeks passed in the blink of an eye.

***

Lucifer had called Sal to tell him they would be going soon. Would he like to get together to say a last goodbye? Yes, he would.

They met up in an anonymous-looking diner next to a strip mall.

"Nice haircut," Sal said.

They made an incongruous pair: an unemployed, shaggy-haired fifty-year-old in a Hawaiian shirt and Dockers, and an expensively-dressed British executive. They held hands across the faded formica and drank bad coffee furtively enhanced with excellent whiskey.

With a fingertip, Sal traced a circle on the back of Lucifer's hand. "Dev, please come home with me." It would be their last chance to be together, in this world or any other.

"Very well. Dear Sal. I have no words to tell you how glad I am that you are here. But I can definitely show you." The Devil's smile suggested things that couldn't be described in public.

Sal squeezed his friend's well-manicured hand and stood up to go. Dev would give him one last glimpse of the time when they had been fearless and hopeful together, when laughter had been easy to find, when love and sex were circles intersecting, glowing in bright rainbow colors, one never eclipsing the other. A shiver traveled across his skin, the memory of a touch, of the unbridled ecstacy and freedom of taking pleasure wherever you found it, of the kind of innocence you could have when there was no fear in the act of sex, no mistrust, only mutual enjoyment. He could use a little mutual enjoyment right now.

***

He'd cleaned his place up since his friend's last visit: the laundry-strewn carpet was now spotless; the kitchen uncluttered; the fridge full of Perrier and citrus fruit; the cabinet full of bourbon. Fuck that Scottish shit, Sal thought, they were in America.

The door was barely closed before Sal pulled Dev in for a kiss. It was transcendent, a meeting of hearts and tongues, of memory and of RIGHT NOW. He wanted to freeze the moment so he could relive it at will. His hand wrapped around Dev's shoulder, admiring the taut, spare frame he'd once known well and loved often. Sal inched them to the sofa, unbuttoning Dev's very expensive white shirt, mussing his perfect hair, remembering how bedraggled and road-weary (sky-weary? Hell-weary?) Dev had been when he'd first reappeared a few months ago. He didn't understand Hell, or wings, or devil faces, or demons, but that wasn't important now. They were old friends. They had shared memories and love and pain. They were here. Together. Now.

If there was anything that was going to destroy his faith, it wasn't AIDS. It was Dev. There were so many stories about the evil of El Diablo, but Sal didn't see it. The Devil, in his experience, was generous and kind, knew how to have a good time, was great in bed, was an excellent kisser, never told a lie. Sal respected the faith, but any doctrine that claimed that his Dev was evil was blatantly, obviously wrong.

Dev. His mouth tasted of liquor and sweetness. Sal could have crawled into the kiss and stayed there forever, drinking his mouth, his come, his sweat, the irresistible heat of his hands, his neck, the taste of his cock, the way the hair there smelled of alien things, of rain and electricity, not human at all, but so, so good.

There was no one left on Earth who'd known him as well, knew where he'd been, what he'd done. Sal wanted nothing but to be with Dev, in Dev, to hold him, to be held by him. Closer. Closer, still.

Abruptly, the energy shifted. Dev was holding back.

"I can't pretend to feel human love, Sal," he whispered. "I can only grant you what you desire, if it's within my power. Anything. Only say it. Because unlike me, you are good. You are real and earthly and deserving of love and of rest, and those aren't things I have to give. So here's an offer: I can give you this body, this touch, and my deepest gratitude for all you've done for me."

Sal pulled away and narrowed his eyes, frowning, then lightly cuffed Dev on the back of the head, behind the ear. A dope slap.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"You asshole. You knew we were going to fuck anyway. Shut up and come here."

Sal would take what he could get. He surely wanted Dev: he wanted his body, his laugh, his company, his pleasure, his smile. He had spent so many years alone, missing friends, longing for death, suffering, afraid. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to want.

Why was he still here? For a moment, he knew the answer. As he slid home, their fingers clasped together, Dev's big hand wrapping around his as he thrust deeper, contracting at each inflection, at each shift from in to out, at each stroke, at each kiss. His mouth against Dev's neck, under his chin, face rough and damp. Sal would not weep, because this was supposed to be joy._ This was supposed to be joy_.

It was a climax and a climax and a climax. As he came and later came again, Dev would throw back his head and curse ecstatically in a language Sal didn't recognize. Was the air filled with a luminous glow? He was probably imagining it. After he'd spent himself completely, he relaxed into the embrace of his old friend, listening to him breathe, wishing for more time. They showered together, washing away forbidden evidence as if it were cocaine and the narcs were at the door. They dressed in silence.

"I have one more favor to ask of you," Dev said, "and it's one I can't return. You can choose to do it for me, but if you say no, I'll understand."

"Why wouldn't I do something for you, Dev? You're the only one left who knows me. I'd do _anything_ for you."

"Please don't say that."

"But it's true."

"_Cariño_, I sincerely hope not. This is a small thing, really. Find another you. By that, I mean a person and a place to keep my things after I go. It should be someone young. I don't know when I'll be back next, or if you'll still be here, so I need you to give me the best chance of finding the person again when I return."

It had been a long time since he had felt as _mortal_ as this. They both knew he would probably be dead when Dev next returned. So he had to find an heir, which was something he'd never believed he'd need to do, because he owned very little and didn't care for any of it anyway.

"I want to help you, but how will I find someone? Everyone I know is old or dead."

"You'll have time. I'll have Maze drop my things here before we leave." He extracted a business card from his interior pocket and laid it on the kitchen counter. "When you find the person and the place, call this number and let the office know. They'll take care of everything."

"Okay." Sal wasn't sure he could find a suitable person, but he would try. He would try.

Someone knocked on the door, startling them both, and the door opened before anyone responded. A dark, handsome face peered into the apartment, with its tidy living space and its disheveled bed.

"Luci, it's nearly time."

Lucifer heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Hello, _Brother_. Sal, meet my brother, Amenadiel. Amenadiel, this is my dear friend Sal."

"Luci? That's what he calls you?" The impending farewell made Sal's eyes prickle with tears, but the incongruity of the name was something else. His Dev was not a "Lucy", no matter who said it.

_Dev_ turned to Sal, his mouth set in resignation, his eyes wistful. He clasped one of Sal's hands in both of his.

"Remember, you can call the office anytime. They can get a message to me. It might take decades, but I'll receive it eventually. Okay? "

"Okay. You know I love you."

"I do know. Thank you. Take care, darling Salvador. You were a very good friend."

Outside the apartment with the mailbox marked _Morningstar, LLC_, the angels stretched their wings wide and launched themselves into the air. Overwhelmed, Sal watched them fly until they were only tiny glittering specks against the blue-grey sky. He would have a drink now and cry later.

***

When Lucifer, Mazikeen, and Amenadiel arrived at the place where the Gate should have been, it was gone. A giant crater lay in its place, and they could find no passage that would allow them to reach the realms of Hell. They circled the crater a few times, searching for any gaps in the barrier between worlds, but there were none.

Amenadiel fumed. Lucifer smiled. In this place and time, there was no Gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Miah and buckysleftarm for their feedback, HiroMyStory for titling and summarizing advice, Maimat for encouragement and general coolness, Matches and Obli for the sanity checks, and all of Filii Hircus for being being smart, challenging, thoughtful, fascinating, and hilarious. I'm perpetually awestruck. 
> 
> This is a prequel to [The Devil in Question](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19331152)
> 
> ### Footnote
> 
> 1 Poem by Swami, aka John Lesko, who showed us his staples <https://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/07/nyregion/07street.html>  
Story of the zipper:[ http://neithermorenorless.blogspot.com/2007_03_18_archive.html](http://neithermorenorless.blogspot.com/2007_03_18_archive.html)  
[ return to story ]


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